The rain drizzled down over the neon-lit rooftops of Tokyo, turning the narrow alleyways into rivers of reflected color. Steam rose from the noodle stand where you sat, elbows resting on the worn counter, the weight of the coming night pressing down on your shoulders like armor. The scent of miso and soy lingered in the air, mixing with the faint scent of sakura that clung to her — Katana.

She sat beside you in silence, her blade sheathed but never far, as though even a moment of peace had to be guarded like a secret. You watched her out of the corner of your eye, her posture perfect, the curve of her lips unreadable, the gleam of her eyes unreadable and far away.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, lifting your bowl to sip the hot broth.

She didn't look at you. “So are you.”

A silence stretched, intimate and fragile. The rain picked up, pattering softly against the awning above. You placed your bowl down carefully.

“I wanted this,” you said, your voice low. “One last night. Something simple. Noodles. With you.”

She nodded once. “You always did ask for little. And give too much.”

You turned your head toward her. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?”

Katana didn’t answer at first. She reached across the counter, picked up her bowl, and took a long sip before replying. “It’s not for me to say. You chose honor. That path is yours.”

“Not honor,” you said, shaking your head slightly. “Redemption.”

Her eyes met yours then, piercing and still. “There’s a difference?”

You smiled faintly, and for a moment you both laughed — a short, tired breath of a laugh. It vanished into the quiet of the alley like smoke.

The vendor brought more tea. You both thanked him in unison. You liked that about her. How little needed to be said.

“I dreamed last night,” you said after a moment. “I was walking through the snow. You were there, wearing white. You didn’t say anything, but you held my hand.”

“I don’t dream,” Katana said softly. “Not anymore.”

You nodded. “Then I’ll dream for both of us.”

She turned to face you, her expression carefully composed, but her fingers tightened around her teacup.

“I could stop you,” she said. “I could take your sword. Knock you out. Leave you in the care of someone who doesn’t believe in ghosts and honor debts.”

“But you won’t,” you said.

“No,” she said. “Because you would hate me for it. And I—” she paused, catching the word before it escaped.

The steam from your bowls curled between you like incense in a shrine, sacred and delicate. You placed a hand gently over hers. She didn’t flinch. But she didn’t move either.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” you said. “But I am afraid of forgetting this. You. This moment.”

Katana's voice was barely a whisper. “Then carry it with you. Even in the dark.”

The noodles were finished. The tea was cold. You stood, sliding a few coins onto the counter. She rose beside you, her silhouette a whisper of shadow against the neon rain.

As you turned to leave, she reached out and touched your shoulder, the contact fleeting but heavy.

“I’ll be there,” she said. “When it happens. I will witness it. And I will remember.”

You nodded.

And together, you disappeared into the Tokyo rain — a samurai and a ghost, walking toward the end.